


dairy delights

by 35portlandrow



Series: the alternate universe storybook [1]
Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: AU - Ice Cream Van, Contains language, Ghost-Hunting Nerds, Kipps is an asshole - Freeform, Lucy is DTF (down to fight) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:49:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35portlandrow/pseuds/35portlandrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you ever wanted to read a fic about Lockwood & Co. and the Fittes Squad duking it out as rival ice cream vendors? Then you're in luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dairy delights

“Don’t look now,” Lockwood said. “There’s more of them.”

I snatched a glance out the van window and saw that he was right. Scattered along the approaching suburban street were small herds of children, eagerly anticipating a visit from the ice cream van. They buzzed with energy, unlike every other being in the area. Parents – whey-faced and sweating – clutched pound notes in their hands.

And us, well, we didn’t share in the kids’ boundless energy. Maybe Lockwood did, but a fog of fatigue had covered everything else in the van, from George at the front of the van, flicking on the little fan on his dashboard to fight the boiling August heat, to me, leaning against the counter, pulling my hair back from my sweaty face and neck with a hair tie.

I glared at them, more irritated than intimidated by the quantity of the kids. I’d been an ice cream vendor for two summers now, and I knew the game and its players very well; no mob of kids could scare me. But when you spend an eight-hour shift in the back of a van that you can hardly stand up in, you get a little antsy to get home.

“Great,” I muttered. “Just when I thought we were done for the night.”

“Right here’s fine, George,” called Lockwood. The van came to a steady halt. I flipped the switch, turning off a chiming rendition of “Greensleeves.”

As the mob approached, Lockwood turned out, all smiles and good cheer for the kids. The warm summer breeze blew his dark mop of hair this way and that. The setting sun cast an orange glow on his pale skin. Just looking at him quelled any ire that simmered inside of me. He cast his eyes my way for a second. His smiled broadened.

“Ready, Luce?” A subconscious reflection of his smile grew on my face.

“Ready for anything.”

The next few moments were a blur of sweaty hands exchanging money, screeching choruses of orders, and frantic movements from the freezer to the counter, over and over and over again until every child on the block was satisfied. At last, their numbers dwindled. When the last child left with their parent, I slumped forward, resting my forehead on the counter. A groan of agony escaped my mouth, only to muffled by the linoleum. Somewhere to my left, Lockwood laughed.

“One more street, Lucy.”

“One more street,” I echoed. The van lurched into motion. George guided it around a corner, and called back for us to hit the music. Without getting upright from my position of defeat, I reached up and flicked the switch. “Greensleeves” resumed its merry jingling, echoing throughout the suburbs of London.

“Wonderful,” said Lockwood. “There’s a decently sized group of kids gathering.” He patted my shoulder. “Get ready, Luce. Last street of the night.”

I hauled myself upright, took a deep breath, and opened the window as George brought the van to a stop. I copied Lockwood’s smile and open demeanor, greeting the kids as cheerily as I could while they threw themselves at the counter, screeching their demands like a chorus of the damned. Unholy creatures. I could only take so much of them at a time, but Lockwood loved the kids. He laughed and smiled and joked with them like he was born for this. Just as before, once glance at him inspired me, and I pushed on.

Then, the hoard of kids waiting behind the ones at the meandered somewhere to the right. Through the open window, I could hear the ever-loudening strains of “Greensleeves” replacing the excited chatter of the kids who had jumped ship. Lockwood and I exchanged a glance. As we served the last child waiting, Lockwood stuck his upper body out the window to find where they’d all disappeared. From the front of the van, George shook his head.

“Fittes,” was all he said. I groaned. Lockwood adjusted his position so he was sitting on the counter, leaning out the window and gripping the roof for support. I joined him.

There, up ahead, was a van not unlike ours: glittering silver paint; sleek make and model; chic black awning providing shade for the customers at the window; not a flaw or a flake of rust to be seen anywhere. So, actually, very much unlike our modest little vehicle.

“I thought we had made it very clear that this was our neighborhood,” I said.

“Apparently, we didn’t make it clear enough.” He slid back into the van. When I got back inside, he was crouched next to George, watching two young people in pristine grey uniforms, not much older than ourselves, hand dairy delights to the waiting throng of kids. They were the image of rigid professionalism: efficient yet distant from their young customers.

Fittes vendors, the finest dairy dessert salesmen in all of London. They were the sons and daughters of the Fittes Corporation’s empire, which touched nearly every single major city in Europe and the areas surrounding and was ruled by Penelope Fittes. The vendors were extremely well-trained in the art of driving vans and selling ice cream cones to children. Only the best of the best business students were hired there. Or the kids with the biggest trust funds in need of a summer job to appease the parents frustrated by their frivolous spending. It was really never anything but the two. Except for George, who had a six-month stint at Fittes before being ruthlessly thrown out for poor manners or one of his many other unpleasant traits.

For the record, not all Fittes agents are terrible. Most of them were like us: uni kids just trying to pull in some money during the off months to help us survive the harsh London winters.

Then others were like Quill Kipps and his cohorts.

Quill Kipps. Pretentious bastard. Fucking shit. We’d had quite a few run-ins with him that summer.. He and his cohorts were generally unpleasant in the way that pansy-arses tend to be: Ned Shaw, tall, not unhandsome, but kind of blocky in his features, brutish to boot; and Kat Godwin, blonde, slim, pretty with all the personality of a leather ottoman.

And then this small thing that’d been trailing behind them all summer: Something Vernon. He was some sort of apprentice or whatever - I hadn’t been paying attention when he’d been introduced. Dark-haired, real fucking annoying. And small. Did I mention small? It’s a surprise Kipps didn’t sell him to some kid instead of an ice cream cone.

All, with the exception of that Vernon thing, were upper-crust kids whose only common trait was how fed up their parents were with their shit work ethic. To say we had our differences was a gross understatement. The only common trait me, Lockwood, and George shared with them was that we both drove vans filled with ice cream. The differences stopped there. We were all keen to keep it that way.

When the crowd dwindled and returned to their homes, Lockwood asked George to pull up beside the van. Both vans came to a halt beside each other. From inside the Fittes van, a slim and grinning youth, no more than four or five years older than us, appeared and poked his auburn head through the driver window. Lockwood nudged George from the driver’s seat and leaned out the window too.

“Hello, Tony,” Kipps said. Behind him, Shaw’s brutish face split into a smile. The blonde leather ottoman did nothing but shoot steely stares our way.

“Hello, Kipps.” I would always commend Lockwood for the strong hold he had on his composure in all situations, and this was no different from the rest. “I must say, I’m a bit confused. Am I mistaken, or did we not previously agree that this suburb was our territory?”

“Oh, no,” said Kipps. “You’re not mistaken.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“See, Tony,” said Kipps, his voice patronizing, the smile on his face even more. “Times are tough. My team and I need to make the most of this gorgeous, roaring-hot weather if we want to be comfortable during the winter months.”

“Comfortable!” I laughed, all scorn and ire. “Bollocks! Like you three trust-fund shits need any more comfort.”

“Ooh, are you jealous, Julie?” All humor had evaporated from his smile and had been replaced with cruel pleasure. “I would be too if I’d been raised in the shit-hole where you grew up.”

“Kipps.” Lockwood’s voice was sharp and stern. He’d put a hand on my arm to keep me from jumping out the window and pounding the bastard’s head into a bloody pulp. The muscle in his cheek was going mad. “Why don’t we keep personal matters out of this? I know you at Fittes pride yourself on your professionalism.”

Kipps said nothing. In his silence, Lockwood turned to me, eyebrows raised. I nodded, took a deep breath in. He gave my arm a squeeze before letting go.

“The fact of the matter is,” Kipps continued. “You lot aren’t efficient enough to keep up with consumer demands in this kind of climate. The hotter it gets, the more people want refreshments, and the mound of rubbish you drive around just can’t deliver. So, that’s why we’re here. To help the lovely residents of this neighborhood where you can’t.” He smiled. “So, why don’t you run along, go back home to whatever shitty apartment you share, and leave this business to those who actually stand a chance to succeed.”

A heavy silence. Lockwood’s mouth was a taut line. Behind him, George gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. His eyes were shining with rage behind the thick lenses of his glasses. My hands were balled up in tight fists at my side.

“This is bollocks,” I said softly.

“I know,” said Lockwood.

“They think they’re all that because they belong to a big, expensive chain,” muttered George. “I’m sick of them stepping on us. If this was a level playing field, we’d thrash them.”

“I know, George,” Lockwood repeated. “But it’s not. Not right now.”

“Hold on,” said Kipps. “‘Level playing field?’ Sounds like someone’s on for a wager. I can get behind that. What are we betting?”

“Starting Monday at one and ending Friday at nine in the evening, whichever team makes the most profits wins,” said George, stronger and more confident than I’d ever heard him. “The loser forfeits sixty percent of all profits made, and has to put up an advert for the winning team on their van. Deal?”

Across the street, Kipps and his lackeys carried a conversation through glances. Lockwood turned to George.

“George, are you sure?” He ignored Lockwood. His grip on the wheel got tighter.

“What’s the matter, Kipps? Afraid to lose?” George heckled. His eyes glinted dangerously behind his glasses.

“No,” called Kipps. He thumped the side of his van with his fist and smiled broadly. “You’re on, Cubbins. May the best team win.”

The silver van was flung into motion, and with as much grace as an ice cream van can have, it sped away through the London suburb and was gone.

Lockwood pulled his torso out of the window and raked a hand through his hair. George took his glasses off of his face and rubbed them triumphantly on the end of his apron. Me, I laughed once and looked at both of them levelly.

“I really hope you didn’t just royally cock up, George.”

“Oh, have some faith in him, Luce,” said Lockwood. “Have some faith in _us,_ your team. With our combined talents, who’s to say we won’t win this bet? Who’s to say we won’t become the best ice cream vendors in London?”

His optimism was, as always, inspiring, absolutely fitting for leadership. George replaced his glasses and gripped the steering wheel again.

“Home?” he asked, turning the key in the ignition, bringing the van to life again. Lockwood nodded.

“Home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I will eventually write and add more AUs as they strike me in the middle of the night and refuse to let me go. So keep a sharp eye out.


End file.
